One of Those Mornings
by Aedem
Summary: France visits. At six in the morning. Warning, the use of Human names! And an O.C.!
1. Francis Arrives

_Alright, soooo... Here is a FrUK. Don't know what I think about this yet, but eh. Who knows? Alright. So this is not gonna be smutty. It's gonna kinda be angsty. But who knows, maybe it will be smutty later. PS. A warning of an O.C.! Her name is Francine, she is the country of Alsace Lorraine, and there will be a fic describing her coming up soon! That is all!_

* * *

The thunder cracked and the rain pelted against the bedroom window, stirring the ash blond from yet another fitful sleep. The red glow of the alarm clock above his head on the bed board threatened 6:05 AM. He lay there quietly, listening to the pounding of the rain; another glorious morning in Dover, England. A deep breath and his brain shot into "What the hell" mode, the remnants of his night before causing his head to pound.

"Oh, sod it! Just kill me and get it over with," he thought as the pounding echoed again. Blinking a couple times, he roused himself awake enough to realize that the pounding was not only in his head. He looked at the clock, thinking, "Who the fuck pounds on a man's door at six in the bloody forenoon!?"

He dragged himself out of the warm bed and shuffled down the hall toward the front door. Staggering, he hopped to my left as a sharp pain jolted up his leg. "Ow! Shit!" he cried as he hobbled to the couch, propping himself against the arm as he grabbed his heel. "Oh bloody hell, why are these ruddy keys on the damned floor?!" It was his own damn fault, he guessed. He should have turned on the light when he first got up.

The pounding became a bit erratic.

"Yeah, yeah! I'm coming," He yelled, crossing the rest of the living room far more awake than he really wanted to be at this hour. With a yank the door swung open. "What?!?"

"My my my, _trés fâché_. And what cute little boxers you have on today, _mon chaux._" Deep blue eyes stared down at the small Englishman, and Arthur could not help but sigh. He was in no mood for the Frenchman today, not with this hangover at its peak.

"_Bonjour, Arthur."_

Arthur blinked, looking straight ahead at the girl hanging off of Francis's arm. It was his younger sister, aptly named Francine, for she was the spitting image of her brother, aside for her having a more feminine charm about her, while he was more rugged and masculine.

"Oh. Mint forenoon to ya, Francine." Arthur nodded and peeked out the front door, watching the rain ricochet off the car and pavement. Another streak of lightning and the inevitable reverberation of thunder lit the apartment. Bare footing to the kitchen, he grabbed his smokes from a drawer and flicked the light switch up. "What brings yeh two here so early?" There was a slight hint of distaste in his voice, and he raised agitated green eyes up from his cigarette.

"Well, we were in the neighborhood-", Francine started, but Francis brought a large hand over her mouth, stopping her from finishing her sentence. Though, Arthur thought it looked more like his hand was smothering her face with its large size.

"_Mon ange_, let us not bore _Monsieur _Arthur with silly tales. Why don't you go back and meet me at the ferry to cross the channel."

"But-"

He gave her a chaste kiss on the forehead, and shook his head. "No buts, _mon ange_. I will meet you at the ferry."

She didn't protest much after that, smiling cheerfully as she waved goodbye to Arthur, and got back into the growler that drove her towards the harbor.

"Well, do you want to come in or do you want to stand in the bloody rain all day?"

"Is that a nice way to say _j'ai manqué vous_?"

"You are such a prick sometimes," Arthur answered flatly, walking into the kitchen again. He grabbed a rag, wiping of the stove from last night's attempt at cooking dinner. He was glad the rancid stench had finally left, though now his kitchen was completely soaked from having to leave his windows open all night.

"Only sometimes?" Francis replied just as flat, crossing his arms in front of him, "Feeling generous today, _non_?"

The rag made a wet, slapping sound as it was hurled into the sink. Arthur looked up at Francis, and the two glared at each other for a few moments, before the Brit relented and broke the silence.

"Well, come in and shut the door already," he sighed, turning around to open a cabinet. He took two teacups out, on blue and the other green, as well a box of tea bags. "Earl Grey is fine, yeah?"

"What makes you think I want to stay?" Francis asked impatiently, his foot tapping on the ground. Ah, the sure sign that the frog was annoyed.

A smirk tugged at Arthur's lips as he opened the box of tea, answering simply, "You actually walked into my house".

Francis let out a defeated sigh, walking in and closing the door behind him .

* * *

_And forgive the French, because I really don't know if it is accurate or not. Becaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaause I do not know French. Sooooo, I used my own translator, sooooo I am sorry if the French is not as accurate as you all would like it._

_trés fâché - _So angry

_j'ai manqué vous_ - I missed you

_mon ange - _my angel


	2. Making Small Talk

_Sorry it's been a while since I've updated. Been so uber busy! So hopefully lotsa posting today! ^w^ Enjoy! Oh, and I lied...there is going to be more than one O.C. MUAH HAHAHA! Again, pardon my French. *le sigh*_

* * *

The silence between the two men was deafening, yet outside, the wind howled and the thunder roared as if war was raging outside that very window. Another flash of lightning lit up the small house. Francis unbuttoned his blue overcoat, taking it off and folding it over his arm in one fluid movement. He remained standing next to the door, his off-blue button-up shirt and dark blue dress pants perfect. He ran his free hand over his perfectly styled, honey-colored hair, and then scrubbed it over his perfectly trimmed, stubbled chin. He looked uncomfortable in the cluttered house, as if his very presence there was suffocating him.

Arthur snickered as he filled the reflective silver kettle with water from the tap, and set it on the stove. He turned the burner knob, waited for a few clicks, then lit a match, setting the gas under the burner aflame. A tinge of sulfur filled the air, and Francis's nose cringed at the odor. Arthur chuckled again, waving out the match.

"What, you don't like the smell of matches? Or is it the smell of my stove? And here I thought you were some kind of famous chef or something."

"Actually, I don't like the smell of futile cooking attempts." Francis retorted with a smirk.

"Again, you're such a prick." Arthur sighed, standing up straight. "You gonna hang that up and come in or stand there like an eejit?"

"…Well, where does it go then?" the Frenchman asked in response, shifting his weight from his left leg to his right.

"Here, give it to me," the Brit answered, tugging the dark blue overcoat out of his guest's arms, "Blimey, is everything you own blue?"

"Must you criticize _everything_, Arthur?" Francis sighed, rolling his eyes as he followed the ash blond further into the small house.

"Of course! Besides, things I can complain about you tend to build up when you're gone. Like, I have a new theory of you and your fashion choices."

"Oh really? _Et q'est-ce que c'est la théorie de le vôtre_?"

"Well, you're putting so much effort into keeping up with fashion, you are just giving yourself that much more of a whorish image." He nodded at his relevation, turning to look at the expression on the Frenchman's face.

Yet his counterpart seemed totally blasé about his comment, staring at him intently with deep blue eyes.

"If you wish to think that, I think of it more as…. Actually caring how I presenting myself to others. _Dieu sait_ I want to walk around looking like _vagabond_, as you do. I actually care about how I look."

"Oh, I can tell. _Everyone_ can tell. Tosser."

"What was that?" Francis asked accusingly, is eyes narrowing.

"Nothing, nothing." Arthur replied, hanging up Francis's coat on the coat rack.

Francis rolled his eyes, before his nose twisted and distorted, smelling the air. "Are you burning something?"

"Hm? Oh, no. It is just something the hob burner. It's fine. Nothing to worry about." He waved it off, before looking at his guest, studying him as he rolled around an idea in his head. "So…how old is Francine this year?" He asked quietly.

Francis's bright blue orbs lit up with the mention of his younger sister, a smile adorning his face as well. "Oh! She is lovely sweet sixteen this year! Oh the grand ball she will have, with dancing and a banquet-"

"She's very…._obedient _isn't she?", Arthur interjected, cupping his chin as he leaned forward onto his knees. "You know, you two are rather close… Some would say…closer than siblings should be."

Arthur watched with wide eyes as Francis's face distorted into an angry grimace, before the honey blond lunged at the Brit. His long, strong fingers wrapped around the column of Arthur's throat, tightening into a vice grip.

"You take that back, _vous cochon anglais!_" He yelled at his host, straddling him as he suffocated him. "How dare you say anything against Francine! She is _un ange_! _A tout à fait respectable, belle jeune fille_! I will not have your malicious tongue slander her good name!"

Arthur struggled underneath the older man, gripping desperately at the hands closing on his throat. He kicked his legs and jolted his body in an attempt to get the other off, yet nothing was working. Francis was now screaming exclusively in French, and even though the other only had a small working knowledge of the language, he could decipher just enough to know that Francis was not playing around.

"A-alright! I-I am sorry! _Je suis désolé! Je suis désolé! _Let go! Let go you bloody frog! I said I was sorry!"

Francis's gripped loosened, yet he did not release the man beneath him, continuing to glare at him. "Why should I?"

"Because I said I was sorry! Sodding frog! Get off!" He screamed, kicking the other off. "You were really trying kill me! You bugger!"

"Well you deserved it! When we argue, I _never_ bring your brothers into the conversation! That is just _vulgaire_."

"Well, you know Francis, some people think you are a _little_ to close to your sister! Don't get bloody mad at me because I decided to say it out loud!"

The two sat in silence as they glared daggers at each other while the teapot on the stove fizzed and bubbled. As if on cue, the high-pitched whistle filled the air, letting them know that the tea water was ready. Jumping up, Arthur sauntered to the stove, bringing a hand to his forehead as he did. Damn frog, making his headache worse. Damn this hangover and damn that frog! Damn everything! All this pain because of a few little drinks and a few little words!

"Earl Grey?"

"If that is all you have, that is fine." Francis replied, stretching before slumping into a chair nearby.

_

* * *

Et q'est-ce que c'est la théorie de le vôtre – _And what is this theory of yours?

_Vous cochon anglais_! – You British pig!

_un ange_ – an angel

_A tout à fait respectable, belle jeune fille_! - Has done everything respectable, beautiful young girl!

_Je suis désolé!_ – I am sorry

_Vulgaire _- low


	3. Tea Time and an Unexpected Visitor

_Hi everyone! Chapter Three up and running finally. Alright, so let's see. This one is shorter than the others, and it really doesn't flow as well, sadly. But it will get better! WOOT!_

* * *

Arthur took the kettle off of the burner and poured the blistering hot water into the cups to swirl it around for a second for two, then he dumped the water back into the kettle. He then poured the water back into the cups, plopping the tea bag in and wrapping the string around the handles of the cups.

"Sugar?" Arthur asked, his voice cracking a bit.

"A little, please, if you don't have any honey." Francis replied, taking a seat at the small kitchen table.

"One lump or two?"

"One should be good."

The cockney nodded, pouring in the small teaspoon of sugar into one of the cups.

"You still make your tea the same way, I see," remarked the Parisian as he adjusted his collar, "I suppose _certaines choses ne changent pas._"

"Only proper way to do so, I dare say. Tea making is a dying art you know." Arthur replied proudly, a triumphant smile on his face.

"Wang would be_ furieux_ if he heard you say that. You know how he feels about _sachets de thé_…how do you say….tea bags?"

"Oh he can snog my arse for all I care. I make my tea the proper way a proper pommy gent should, thank you very much," a quick pause, "Want anything stronger in your tea, frog?"

"Brandy if you have it." Francis answered, ignoring the nickname.

With a scoff, Arthur went into the cabinet on his left, grabbing the near-empty bottle of liquor, "Course I have brandy! What do you take me for, that bloody yank?"

Francis was suddenly smirking, and it was a maniacal, patronizing leer. "Ooooh~ You two got into lover's quarrel I see." He teased, though his eyes burned with a sort of resentment at the thoughts brewing in his head.

"Shut your gob, you wanker! You know very well Alfred and I aren't dating-"

"Obviously much to your displeasure-"

Abruptly Arthur's hands pounded the counter, clenched tight enough that his nails were drawing blood in from his palms. "Shut up about it, you fucking asshole!"

"Fine, fine. As you wish. Far be it from me to provoke another argument."

"Thank you," replied the host on a sigh of relief, his anger quelling as he poured a generous amount of brandy into both cups.

"How civilized you are, even after an argument," jibed the guest as he was handed his cup of tea, "Really, how do you do it?"

"Some civility would do you some good, you great old French Baboon."

"Ah, mon cher, I am how I am. No reason to start changing now, is there?"

The two faded into a silence as thunder echoed outside, the rain droning as it beat against the window. Every so often, Arthur's eyes would rise to look his visitor over, his skin tingling in anticipation; he knew this situation, he remembered this tension.

"You know…" Francis started softly, clearing his throat, "There is a reason I never came back…"

Arthur rolled his eyes, cursing the man inwardly for ruining the moment that could have happened. "And which reason is that?" He asked, taking the last sip of his tea and brandy, "There were oh so many if I remember correctly. Last time you even left me a list. I taped it to the refrigerator and everything, do you want to see it?"

"Don't be such a prick Arthur." Francis said testily, taking his final sip as well.

"Called a prick twice in one day. I am on a roll today, aren't I? Shall I try for a third time?"

"I mean it, Arthur. I am in no mood for you."

"Oh get off your high horse, Francis. You are no better than I am, though I am most certainly better than you in every way. But that is besides the point. I want to know this oh so important reason you had for never coming back or even calling me."

Francis opened his mouth to speak, but the second his lips parted, the door swung open with a giant burst. Arthur sat there, petrified as he looked towards the door.

"Oi, bro'her!" A strong, coarse voice rang out.

Two pairs of eyes fell upon the pale, hairy man who stood at the door. His curly, mahogany hair fell over his hazel eyes and he stood proudly in his blue, green, red and black kilt, soaken white tank top and scuffed combat boots. He had hairy tattooed arms poised in a comedic fashion, and the scruff of a goatee around his mouth seemed to be more alive than the rest of him. Arthur sat there, completely mortified at the spectacle before him.

"Lorne."

_Certaines choses ne changent pas _– certain things do not change

_Furieux – _Furious

_sachets de thé _- Teabags


End file.
